


Compass

by deathwailart



Category: Original Work
Genre: Cooking, Domestic, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Holidays, Magic Realism, Maybe - Freeform, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-11
Updated: 2012-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-18 09:34:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows the changes of the seasons from her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compass

He knows the changes of the seasons from her. The sheer tights from summer are rolled up, tucked away in the back of the drawer alongside bikinis and swimsuits, thicker, darker tights replacing them, her wardrobe shifting from lighter, more delicate fabrics to things the wind won't whip up as easily. Her boots, fashionable of course, are sturdy and waterproof with a grip so she won't slip on slick pavements or ice and her jacket waterproof. There are little bottles of glittery nail polish on her dresser alongside the darker matte polishes, the citrus or sweet perfumes tucked away in the dark - they'll go off if not, he doesn't understand that but goes along with it - different bottles appearing. Vanilla and hints of spice waft whenever he passes the dresser or when he leans in to steal a kiss, sometimes lingering on his warmest jumpers and shirts when she wears them curled up on the couch watching telly or reading a book. It's worth waking up earlier in the morning to watch her sit at the vanity, rolling her tights up pale legs. Sometimes he does it for her, fingers light over her ankles, stroking the soft skin at the back of her knees, kissing the inside of her thighs, running his fingers over the arch of her feet. He prefers peeling them off at the end of the day, always careful not to snag them on his rough hands, not after he left a ladder in one of her favourite pairs. He still maintains it's a silly thing to get upset over when she has dozens of pairs but he keeps his mouth shut; it's one of those women things men will never quite understand fully.  
  
She cooks endlessly in the winter months, the kitchen cold without the oven on and he comes home to pumpkin pie, apple crumble, hearty stews and for months to come there will be reheated portions of soups made and frozen once they've cooled. Everything comes out of a battered recipe book, black leather cracked in a hundred places and held together with tape, yellowed pages ragged around the edges with stains and splotches in the corners. The title on the spine and cover have long gone but traces of gold remain where they once were. It's one of those legacies passed on when a young woman made her own home, mother to daughter, cherished despite the state it has fallen into. "It's loved," she says when she catches him rolling his eyes at the book, "it's brought a lot of people a lot of happiness, you included. Don't be ungrateful or you'll be fending for yourself from now on."  
  
It's not that he can't cook. He does cook, he likes doing it and he still tries to alternate cooking with her so that they're even but there's just this extra flair with her food, it always tastes better. Better than his mum's, not that he'd tell his mother that if he wanted to make it out of the house alive. Everyone comes to their house for the holidays for dinner parties or just for get-togethers, bringing the alcohol or something to do for the night in exchange. They all say how lucky he is to have landed someone like her and he agrees but every time it comes up she smiles at him, the special smile that one lover has for the other, and claims she's the lucky one. They both know that they get joked about behind their backs for being disgustingly saccharine, too good to be true but it's just the jealousy talking.  
  
"It's almost like magic, you and the world, the way you touch it." Which is probably more intimate and romantic than it seems at first, saying it with his head pillowed on her thigh with her fingers stroking his hair. "I don't know how to explain it."  
  
"Sometimes," her voice is quiet, teasing and he is loathe to be moved by her gentle hands but allows it so she can whisper in his ear, "it's best not to explain and leave it all to be wonderful or mysterious. You might spoil it otherwise."  
  
"I still want you to know though," and he has never been particularly self-conscious nor has he been confident to the point of excess. He is comfortable in who he is, self-assured. Trying to articulate this in just the right way is important to him in this moment in bed with her, bodies languid and sated. "Maybe you're like a fairy or a priestess, this delicate knowing that I see."  
  
She kisses him, fingertips tipping his chin up as her long hair falls to curtain them with a waft of some perfumed shampoo.  
  
Their house has this buzzing tingle that he notices when he wakes up in the morning and comes home at night. Stronger at this time of year of dark mornings and darker evenings when she straightens his warm jumpers or cardigans, wraps him up in his scarf that smells faintly of perfume all day even when she's never worn it. Night is spent by the fire – she insisted when they looked for their first house that they _needed_ a real fire and that he'd understand once he'd experienced it (and he did and still does) – sharing dessert together, maybe reading or watching TV. Her feet will be in his lap as he chafes warmth into them and she'll be wearing one of his old jumpers, the one that has no shape despite following the washing instructions to the letter, bobbled in places, an elbow going threadbare. She should maybe look frumpy, old fashioned, happy to play the fifties housewife but he thinks she looks like a queen, regal and composed in her domain. It isn't that either of them hate the spring or summer with bright colours and floaty fabrics, crisp salads and frozen delights. He certainly misses going out and lazing with her in the sun or taking long drives and walks through the countryside as he freckles and she tans but he thinks they feel right as people and as a couple at this time of year. She's his compass like this, guiding him the right way, that magnetic pull to where he needs and wants to be. He still likes to think it's magic but she's right when she says he's not to question it. It's better this way where it lends his private smiles in her direction an almost reverential air, watching her cheeks flush pink as winter berries. He misses winter when it thaws and melts, savours the out of season scents and flavours if they appear in the warmer months but it makes him look forward to it all the more.  
  
He comes home in the driving rain, the sky grey and shot through with indigo since before he left work, shivering and soaking, coat on the hook, shoes off. Soup and pudding greet him and his spirits lift, warmth radiating through him before he's even at the table.


End file.
